


Open Your Eyes (Your Heart Can Tell No Lies)

by piratekelly



Series: New Favorite Day [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Fluff, Holidays, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Stilinski Family Feels, slight angst, terrible pet names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 04:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5275931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piratekelly/pseuds/piratekelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is fairly certain that the universe is trying to tell him something, which is all fine and dandy, but he thinks that maybe, possibly, the important realization here is that he really needs to invest in a calendar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Your Eyes (Your Heart Can Tell No Lies)

**Author's Note:**

> And this is the point where I actually have to start writing the end of this series, but fear not! We're three parts away from the stuff you've been waiting for, plus an epilogue! Unfortunately, that might take a while to get to, but I'M GONNA DO IT DAMMIT.
> 
> Title comes from Disney's Mulan.

\--

While everyone else has been waiting for the other shoe to drop in terms of a new group of enemies rolling through town with every intention of killing the entire pack, Stiles has been using his Christmas break to artfully dodge his dad in order to avoid any and all possible conversation should he notice the cut that’s currently just an angry red scab two inches long on Stiles’ forearm.

 

For the most part, bandages and his flannel shirts cover it well enough, but after about three days, Stiles gets the feeling that his dad knows something is up.  Stiles has spent more time indoors in the last few days than he has in the last few months, has been moving around the house with much more concern for the state of his body than usual, and hasn’t broken anything (including any part of himself) in that span of time.  These reasons, and so many more, have the Sheriff’s red flags waving high in hurricane force winds, and Stiles just knows that it’s only a matter of time before everything comes down.

 

He makes it two more days.

 

Unbeknownst to everyone in his life, Stiles has been sleeping fitfully since that day in the warehouse. He keeps having the same dream he’s had every time he’s come face to face with death since Gerard happened to all of them.  He’s plagued with images of Gerard’s snarl, grunting out his crazy talk between punches to his face, kicks to his ribs, spittle spray on his cheek as he screamed in Stiles’ face when he refused to turn on the pack. It’s the same dream every time, so even unconscious Stiles knows what will happen next.  He’ll wake up with Gerard’s smile in his mind, the memory of the old man walking away victorious as Stiles lay curled in on himself on cold cement, struggling to breathe through the shame he feels for not having been stronger.  He remembers the relief he’d seen in Erica and Boyd’s eyes when he’d looked up, the both of them wanting to avoid seeing Stiles beaten more than he already was.

 

He always wakes up from this dream forgetting, just for a second, that he’s safe at home in his bed. Like always, he wakes up swinging, wakes up fighting an invisible man to buy time he never had and doesn’t need. Stiles violently swings his left arm out, scabbed over cut meeting with the corner of his nightstand, and he shoots straight into a sitting position, sweaty and panting, frantically searching the room for the presence of a person only alive in his dreams, before a dull but insistent throbbing in his arm brings him back to reality.  He raises the aching limb, and with the help of the moonlight can just make out the sluggish flow of blood coming from the middle of the scab.

 

“Fuck.”

 

Untangling himself from his sheets with one hand while trying not to bleed everywhere is a lesson in patience he never wanted, but he somehow manages it, quietly padding down the hall in his boxers and t-shirt to the bathroom.  The soft snick of the door shutting seems loud in the silence of the house, but his dad isn’t home, so he ignores it.  He’s kneeling in front of the sink, reaching into the lower cabinet for gauze and peroxide, doing his best not to get blood on the floor, when the bathroom door opens.

 

“Stiles?”

 

He jumps, his very basic first aid kit now scattered on the floor.  “Dad!”

 

The Sheriff opens his mouth to reply, and Stiles really hopes he’s just going to get an apology for barging in when clearly the bathroom was occupied, but he can feel the blood creeping slowly across his skin and before he can stop himself, he absentmindedly wipes it away.

 

“What the hell, Stiles?” The sense of urgency in his dad’s voice makes him choke up.  It’s moments like these, where he’s bruised or bleeding for whatever reason, where he wants nothing more than to lose himself in the feeling of being pulled against his father’s chest, cry for a few days, and then tell him everything.

 

He’s gone back and forth on telling his father so many different times, under so many different circumstances; has compiled lists of pros and cons, worked out thorough arguments and counterarguments, and he always reaches the same conclusion: either way, his father would be no more safe than he is now.  Telling him could mean he gets tortured for information, or it could mean he takes a clip of wolfsbane bullets to work for extra protection. Stiles’ best weapon has always been his love of knowledge; it’s gotten him out of more jams than anything physical, and to keep that information from his dad feels wrong in theory, in practice, in his very _bones_. But his dad has suffered enough; Stiles figures he can shoulder some of the weight for a while.

 

“-iles?  _Stiles_!”

 

“Uh, yeah.  It’s… it’s nothing, dad.  Just a scratch.”

 

“Okay,” his dad mutters. “That is not a scratch, and I want you to tell me how it happened.”

 

While he waits for an answer, the Sheriff crouches down so that he’s eye-level with Stiles, reaches over to pick up the cotton balls and peroxide from the floor, and gently cleans the area around the scab.

 

“Lacrosse,” Stiles hisses.

 

His father’s actions never waver. “Try again.”

 

“Seriously,” Stiles presses. “Pickup game with some guys from the team.  I fell, cut myself on a piece of broken glass.  The end.”

 

His dad leans over and picks up the package of gauze from the floor, tearing it open and gently pressing it over where Stiles is still bleeding, tapes the sides down with the sort of detachment Stiles knows his dad has to use when people get hurt in the line of duty, and helps Stiles to his feet. He tries to ignore the fact that his father hasn’t looked him in the eye once during their entire exchange.

 

“I wish you’d quit lying to me, kid.”

 

Stiles has to turn away, bites his lip to stifle the heavy breath he wants to release. But he knows it will only lead to tears and a full confession, and his vision is starting to blur already and he needs to get out of here, back to his room where he doesn’t have to pretend that he’s essentially living two lives and that his father doesn’t really know what’s going on in either of them.

 

Stiles knows there’s a right way to tell his dad, that there is a right time, but it’s not this and it’s not now. The Sheriff seems to sense his son’s resolve and nods, resigned, before clapping Stiles on the shoulder once and walking down the hall to his own room.

 

Stiles decides that he can’t possibly feel any worse than he already does, throbbing in his arm or not, so he turns off the bathroom light and heads back down the hall to his room, quietly shutting the door behind him.  He crawls into bed, makes a serious effort to not get his bad arm caught in the sheets, but gives up on the endeavor before he can fully manage to lie down. The sheets are too tangled from his nightmare and he doesn’t care enough to fix them.  He lies on his back, good arm behind his head, bad arm resting on his chest and stares at the ceiling, trying his best not to think. It lasts all of ten minutes, until the flash of a car’s headlights creeps across his ceiling.

 

He wonders who could be out driving in the middle of the night on a Thursday.  Is it a husband being sent to the grocery store on a search for pickles and blueberry PopTarts?  A tired parent just trying to put their baby to sleep?  A teenager heading home way past their curfew?  One of his dad’s deputies patrolling?  Is it an emergency?  Is someone sick? The possibilities, Stiles thinks to himself, are too many to consider.  But they all seem to come down to the reason behind all the lies.

 

 

Stiles should scoff at himself for how ridiculously cliché it sounds. He would, in fact, if the cliché itself didn’t have so much truth to it.  Everything he and the pack do is, first and foremost, meant to preserve the lives of the residents of Beacon Hills.  They protect the town’s children from things like strigas so they don’t have a reason to be afraid of the dark, keep their parents from being mauled by omega wolves or captured by witches or something equally terrifying.  They’re heroes hiding in plain sight, who will always have to hide, because stripping this area of its blissful ignorance means putting everything about their lives as they know them in danger.

 

It’s inevitable that some people find out; Allison, Lydia, Jackson, Danny, all of them are proof of that. Stiles knows what it feels like, to have everything you’ve always been told was a story suddenly become _real_ , knows what it’s like to have your world turned upside down in an instant.  They were never supposed to know.  None of them were, Stiles included, and as much as he wishes it could, knowing that doesn’t change anything.

 

So Stiles knows there will come a time where the lies will stop working and he’ll have to tell his dad. It’s useless, hoping that moment never comes.

 

He groans, turns onto his side and closes his eyes, and tries to fall back to sleep.

 

He’ll hope anyway.

 

\--

 

The next few weeks fly by as the pack loses themselves in the monotony of, once again, being in school. Applications for colleges are in, so there’s nothing left to be done on that front except wait. It would be much easier to do so if Stiles had anything to do outside of school.  He doesn’t have an extracurricular this semester, his long-festering senioritis is beginning to set in, and Stiles finds his focus straining thinner than usual. It’s still quiet on the supernatural front, and while he’s happy that death seems to have stopped knocking on their collective door for the time being, he’d give just about anything for _something_ to happen.  Mostly, and he’ll never admit this to anyone else because he _can’t_ , he just wishes Derek was around.

 

Because the pack is graduating in May, he’s been all over California (anywhere any of them have applied to, at least) negotiating with any residing packs to guarantee their safe passage into the territory. He’ll have to go out East, too (fucking Lydia Martin and her genius ass going all Ivy League on them) but Stiles figures he’ll be gone for a few days at most.  They text when they have time, but Stiles hasn’t seen much of him since the New Year’s party that, if asked, they’ll all swear never happened. Not that Stiles is counting or anything.

 

He’s not.

 

Two weeks of complete separation is a lot of time to monitor.

 

\--

 

It’s another week before Stiles gets a text from Derek; he’s back and there’s a pack meeting that night to discuss the success of his many negotiations.  Any other night and they’d all be pissed at the late notice (none more than Mrs. McCall, however, who loves Derek but never misses the opportunity to point out that “they’re all teenagers” and that “they’re only allowed to save Beacon Hills when their homework is done unless someone is dying”) but it’s Friday and there’s literally _nothing_ going on.

 

The meeting itself takes no more than thirty minutes once Jackson decides to deign them with his presence as well as their pizza order.  They all know he’s late just to get a rise out of Derek, and Stiles can tell by the set of Derek’s shoulders when Jackson walks in, smirking, that Derek will make him pay for it when training picks up again in a couple days. 

 

All ten of them are scattered around the living room as Derek tells them that, while some packs easily agreed to Hale members residing in their territories (apparently the Hale name still carries _some_ weight), others took a little more persuading.  Stiles agrees with Derek’s assumption that the packs were only amenable to such negotiations because there were no more than two members moving into any of the areas, and nearly half of them were human.  All in all, Derek tells them that they’re all set to venture where they may (Erica’s words, not Derek’s) in the fall and dismisses them.

 

The pack wastes no time in vacating Derek’s house, leaving pizza boxes and Derek’s new plates strewn all over the room, but Stiles hangs back.  He’s grateful that they were all so eager to leave, because he hasn’t seen Derek in weeks and he’s _missed_ him. Stiles hadn’t realized exactly how much space Derek has started to take up in his life until he just… wasn’t there. He knows tonight won’t be like their usual ones, where they get together under the pretense of a mutual love of Disney (while Stiles knows he’s made a fan out of Derek, they’ve seen all of them so many times that they mostly put them on for background noise anymore) because Derek looks _exhausted_. Stiles tells him as much, noting the dark circles under Derek’s eyes and the sluggishness of his movements, and it seems like it takes all of Derek’s remaining energy to just try to laugh, and in doing so nearly drops a plate.

 

“Dude,” Stiles says. “Go lay down.  You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

 

“I’ll heal.”

 

“Derek.  Go the fuck to sleep.”

 

He must believe Stiles’ I-will-call-the-pack-and-have-them-sit-on-you-until-you-pass-out face, because he hands over the stack of plates he’d collected and brushes his hand across Stiles’ shoulders as he leaves the kitchen.  Stiles figures it’s as much of a “missed you too” a person can expect from someone as selectively communicative as Derek.

 

Stiles makes quick work of the kitchen, stacking pizza boxes by the trash, rinsing off dishes before placing them in the dish washer.  He’ll start it in the morning; there’s no point in waking Derek up when he’s resting for the first time in weeks.  He sends his dad a quick text telling him he’s staying at Scott’s, then immediately fires one off to Scott telling him to cover for him should his dad ask where he is. He knows Scott will ask the same question, so he turns his phone on silent and leaves it on the counter. He’s not up for a really invasive game of 20 Questions tonight.

 

Stiles sneaks up the stairs and makes his way down the hall, stopping at the last door on the right, which is cracked open.  He gives it a gentle push, just enough so that he can see inside to get a glimpse of Derek on his stomach, the lines of his face smoothed out in sleep, his arm curled around a pillow, body barely under the covers.  Stiles considers tip-toeing his way in, pulling the sheets further up around him, but instead shuts the door and heads back down to the living room, knowing that if he walked in there he’d crawl in bed behind Derek and curl into the warmth of his body. But he won’t, because he knows that Derek hates being hot when he tries to sleep, which is why Stiles always wakes up cold on nights they talk so much they make themselves hoarse until they pass out. Derek always kicks the covers, not only off of himself, but completely off the bed. It’s yet another werewolf quirk Stiles has learned to live with, their ability to run hot at all times, and in the grand scheme of things, it’s by far the most convenient.

 

He shuts off the hallway light as he makes his way over to the couch, detouring towards the hall closet to grab an extra blanket before settling on the couch and turning off the lamp above him. Sleep doesn’t come easy, but when it does come, he gives a passing thought to the werewolf asleep upstairs and how much easier it is to fall asleep next to him than it is to sleep alone.

 

\--

 

When Derek comes downstairs the next morning, sleep ruffled and beautiful, he doesn’t ask Stiles why he slept on the couch instead of, at the very least, one of the guest rooms. He grunts in Stiles’ direction, Derek’s idea of “good morning,” and pours himself a cup of coffee before picking up the plate of bacon and eggs Stiles put together.

 

Stiles hates that he’s not surprised that Derek didn’t ask.

 

\--

 

It’s now the middle of February, two months since the warehouse, and much to Stiles’ dismay, there is still a serious lack of supernatural happenings in Beacon Hills.  Everything is quiet on the homework front for many of them, midterms or extra study halls leaving them with little to do, and patrol over Stiles’ house has ceased, so Stiles decides that now would be a good time to celebrate their boredom.  He needs a night out of the house; since that night in the bathroom, Stiles has sat through a number of very awkward conversations with his father about how he needs to be more careful.  He knows his dad still doesn’t buy the broken glass excuse, but he’ll get as much mileage out of that one as he can.  Other than that, things are… _good_.

 

So it kind of sucks when Stiles wants to celebrate an injury-free two months and every pack member seems to have plans for the weekend.  Jackson and Lydia are doing whatever it is they do for fun, which means that Jackson is probably heading to the movie store after school to rent _The Notebook_ for the twentieth time. Scott and Allison are “studying,” but his mind literally refuses to consider the implications of such a thing when it comes to those two.  He doesn’t even want to think about what Boyd and Erica have planned, because while Boyd and Erica both have a tendency to get overly aggressive, they’re notorious for being really sappy when no one is looking, Danny is visiting his boyfriend… somewhere, Stiles doesn’t really know, is fairly certain Danny never said, and Isaac has a real life _date_. Stiles sighs to himself as he drives home from school that day, fingers running through hair he’d been too lazy to get cut and then just left it long, resigning himself to an awkward weekend at home with his dad and his Xbox.

 

It goes without saying that Stiles is just a little surprised when he walks in the front door just in time for his father to walk out of it, duffle bag in hand, announcing that he’s going to a seminar in San Diego all weekend.  He’s left fifty dollars on the counter and explicit instructions to avoid bodily harm for the next 48 hours.  It takes the sound of the cruiser’s engine turning over for Stiles to come out of his daze. He’s alone.  For the whole weekend.  At any other point in his life this would be the best news on the planet, but this is kind of the opposite of what he’d wanted.

 

Once he snaps out of it, though, he realizes that he never actively asked one last person to hang out this weekend. He whips out his phone and types a quick message.

 

  1. _Dad’s gone all weekend.  Great Mouse Detective on Netflix_.



 

Less than a minute later, Stiles opens his phone and smiles.

 

 _Be there in 20_.

 

\--

 

It’s still early, only four o’clock by the time Derek pulls into the driveway and comes inside. After gathering the required Netflix-marathon necessities (all the junk food in the house, plus any carbonated drink in sight, along with a massive bowl of popcorn) they sit down and plow through the few Disney movies the streaming service can offer. The movies aren’t long, never more than an hour and a half, and with each passing film Stiles and Derek seem to be gravitating closer to each other.  In the beginning they’d been on opposite ends of the couch, piling the food on the middle cushion, occasionally bumping hands when they reached for the popcorn, but as time goes on more and more of their food winds up on the coffee table instead of the middle cushion.  He tried his best to focus on Copper racing through the woods with Trixie, but Derek’s presence seemed to be much more distracting than usual. 

 

He wasn’t going to pretend that he didn’t find Derek attractive, that is, objectively speaking. But beyond the stubbled jaw and the chiseled abs, beyond the angst and the scowl, Stiles knows there’s a good heart, a person who genuinely cares about the people in his life, who wants them to be safe, who would (and already has) sacrificed so much of himself to see that happen.  Stiles knows the tick in Derek’s jaw when he’s trying not to laugh, can easily visualize how the lines on Derek’s face just disappear when he actually does.  He knows Derek likes to cuddle (though he’ll never tell), that every once in a while he still has nightmares about the fire, or Kate, or killing Peter. He knows that Derek trusts Stiles enough to tell him about them afterwards, and about his family, how the events of his past leave him hesitant to entertain thoughts of a family of his own. He’s pretty sure that, at this point, Derek doesn’t mind being called Wolverine, but maybe that’s just a Stiles thing. He hopes it is, anyway.

 

Not that Stiles has paid that much attention, or that he was thinking about how close his hand is to the back of Derek’s neck. They were watching movies. They were being _bros,_ hanging out and eating junk food and burping and grunting and being _men_. Stiles most certainly did not watch Derek out of the corner of his eye as he licked butter off his fingers.

 

He didn’t.

 

(He totally did.

 

He’s so screwed.)

 

\--

 

They finish their third movie only to realize that it’s 8pm and they haven’t eaten anything that could qualify as an actual meal, so they climb into the Jeep and head to the pack’s favorite pizza joint. Since Derek’s had two years to clear his name and re-establish his reputation as the charmer he was before the fire, they’ve started hanging out in public more, though never just the two of them. It’s not intentional, it’s just that they already spend so much time together doing other things that no one else is involved in that they only ever manage to get out together after a pack meeting or a lacrosse game. 

 

Upon walking in they get some puzzled looks, which is weird, because some variation of their group dines here at least once a week, and they know Stiles _by name_ , but nothing screams DANGER to them, so he lets it go.

 

Their usual booth in the poorly lit back corner of the restaurant is, for some reason, actually taken, and after a cursory glance around, Stiles notices that there’s only a small table in the back that’s open.  Obviously he’s not going to let a perfectly good table go to waste, because it’s a Friday night and they’re hungry, plus the wait will take forever if they insist on their usual spot.  They go halfsies – Stiles’ word, definitely Stiles’ – on a large pizza, pepperoni on one side and Hawaiian on the other (Stiles gets the Hawaiian just to see the look of abject horror Derek gives him every time he does it, because apparently fruit on pizza is ten shades of food blasphemy).  They joke around while they wait, Stiles filling the silence between them with made-up stories for every pair at the tables surrounding them, smiles with what feels like his whole body when he makes Derek laugh out loud.

 

After about half an hour they’re interrupted by the arrival of their waitress, a pitcher of water in one hand and their pizza precariously balanced on the other.  A pizza that, much to their collective surprise, is shaped like a heart.  Definitely lopsided, hilariously so, even, but definitely meant to be a heart.  She giggles, leans in and whispers that they make a cute couple before walking off.  They stare at each other, confused, because _why would she say that_ but with a quick shrug of their shoulders the matter is brushed aside and they dig in. 

 

Stiles is trying really hard to not read into Derek just shrugging off the assumption that they’re boyfriends, he really does, but he fails fantastically.  Derek just _shrugged it off_ like it was nothing, like it happens every day.  Like he doesn’t mind that someone would _assume_ it.  It’s like he didn’t even consider correcting her.  Stiles knows that before he lets his mind run away with thoughts of running off into a pizza grease-flavored sunset with Derek he needs to stop himself before he can get his hopes up any further.  He’s having a nice night with someone he considers to be a best friend, and he’s not going to ruin it for himself.  They make small talk between bites, but neither of them are big talkers while eating, so the table stays silent for the most part, conversation carried through meaningful glances and the occasional hum of agreement.

 

It takes three slices for Stiles to decide that he’s really not done thinking about it.

 

Why would people assume they’re a couple?  I mean, sure, it sort of explains the weird looks they got when they walked in, but, again, it’s not like they haven’t been here before, and Beacon Hills, for all its faults, isn’t a predominantly homophobic area.  And their waitress seemed happy for them in a really creepy way that sort of makes his skin crawl.  For all he knows she’s run off to the break room to gossip with her coworkers about the two boyfriends sitting in her section who are probably desperately in love and going to get married and have tons of super hot sex and –

 

Stiles forces another bite of pizza. He’s not going there. He’s not.

 

Bros eat pizza together all the time. It’s not akin to a marriage proposal in the bro-world.  They’re just two hungry dudes.  But then Stiles looks around – _really_ looks around – and realizes that there are only couples in this restaurant, the occasional rose seen lying on a table, presumably gifted by the male half of said pairs, and maybe the lighting is a little dimmer than usual and did he mention that all of his friends were paired off this weekend?  Which, earlier in the week, hadn’t made any sense, but now it totally does because it –

 

 _Oh_.

 

Stiles’ last slice of pizza lands on his plate with a dull _thunk_ , the action sending his fork flying through the air and landing with a crash on their table. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

 

Derek chokes on his bite of pizza, and at any other moment Stiles would have been proud of himself for finally catching Derek unaware, but he’s still sort of stuck on the fact that he’s essentially on a date with Derek Hale and _he didn’t know it_.  He’s on a date with Derek Hale.

 

Derek Hale, who is still choking.

 

Derek Hale, who Stiles should probably help.

 

“Whoa there, buddy,” Stiles grabs his water, shoving it into Derek’s hand, water sloshing over the lip. “Stop coughing and drink.”

 

Derek levels a glare at him, but does as he’s told.  A few deep breaths and one glass of water later and Derek’s face has returned to its normal color and Stiles has mentally catalogued the number of ways this night could go really, really wrong.  The silence carries on and Stiles starts to fidget more and more, all the while never looking Derek in the eye.  It doesn’t take long for the itch to speak to become unbearable, so Stiles tries to come up with something to say.

 

“So.”

 

That was the complete _opposite_ of the impressive vocabulary display he was aiming for. He’s said wittier and more creative things while being beaten.  Stiles really wants to facepalm himself. 

 

“So,” Derek replies. Well, at least that response was expected.  Derek’s always been a big fan of monosyllabic conversation whenever the option presents itself.

 

“Thanks to a massive oversight on both of our parts, this just went from a casual hangout to an awkward date in under two seconds.”

 

“It’s not a date,” Derek grumbles. Stiles can’t say he didn’t expect it, but Derek’s reaction to the assumption that they were together had given him the tiniest bit of hope.  Even so, it doesn’t change the fact that he sort of feels like he just got punched. Derek, his best friend, the person he tells things he’s never even told Scott, the guy he’s had a crush on since they started this whole thing, just admitted he wouldn’t date him. Of course it hurts. It’s like Lydia all over again, except worse.

 

“Yeah, of course it’s not,” he stutters, reaching for his wallet to leave his part of the bill on the table in an attempt to leave.  “I was just –”

 

“Stiles.”  When Stiles refuses to look at him, Derek reaches out as if to lay a hand on Stiles’ forearm, but pulls back at the last second. Stiles tries not to look as deflated as he feels.  “I’m not mad. I’m not embarrassed. It’s just…weird.”

 

 _Yeah, it’s really weird that someone would assume you want me_ , Stiles thinks to himself.  He shakes the thought away; Derek isn’t doing this intentionally, and Stiles has been telling himself since the beginning that only friendship was on the table, but his heart has a nasty track record of completely disregarding logic and also the opinion of person with which is affections lie. Stiles is one of those people who knows they’re cursed to love the people they can’t have.

 

“Yeah, it is,” Stiles agrees, though he can tell Derek knows his enthusiasm is forced.  He puts his wallet back in his pocket and leans against the table. “Why can’t two friends share a pizza on the day of _love_?”

 

Derek exhales as his body sinks back into this chair, the relief clear on his face.  Stiles tries not to be too hurt by it.  He makes a valiant effort.  “Exactly.”

 

And then nothing. There’s nothing for what feels like a very, very long time.

 

“Do you want to get the rest of this to go?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

Stiles waves their waitress over. She’s smiling in a way that still creeps Stiles out.

 

“Let me guess,” she says. “You want the check?” Stiles nods, and just when he thought it wasn’t possible, her grin widens even more.  It’s like being stared down by the Cheshire Cat. “That was awful fast.”

 

Derek sees this glint in Stiles’ eye that he _knows_ means trouble, and that there’s little he can do to stop it.  Stiles laces his fingers together, resting them under his chin, and looks up at their waitress.  If he isn’t going to get what he wants from Derek, he’s going to put things back to normal.

 

“Well, you know how it goes. Mood lighting, good food, good looking date,” Stiles sighs to himself, looking the picture of a man happily in love, exaggeratedly fluttering his eyelashes at Derek.   “I just have to get His Royal Buffness home and have my dirty, dirty way with him.”

 

Derek glares at his glass as though it’s personally offended him.  The waitress just laughs, though she seems less comfortable than she had a moment ago. _Good_ , Stiles thinks.

 

“Apt pet name,” she says.

 

“Oh, no, that’s a nickname. For his –”

 

Derek chokes on his water the same time the waitress seems to stop breathing altogether.  Stiles, now the picture of complete innocence, takes a sip of his water, smiling around the lip of the glass as he lets the unfinished comment hang in the air for just a second too long before asking for the check a second time.

 

\--

 

They’re in the jeep on the way back to Stiles’ house when Derek finally recovers.

 

“I can’t believe you did that.”

 

Stiles bites his bottom lip. “Did what, Schnookums?”

 

“I mean, that poor girl –”

 

“What about her, Boo Boo Bear?”

 

“– we’ll never be able to go back there now –”

 

Stiles huffs.  “Yes, we can, Hot Pants.  We’re her favorites.”

 

“– Isaac is going to be so mad, he loves that place –”

 

“Foofie Poops, you’re really starting to be a downer.”

 

“– where in the hell are we going to find pizza that goo–.  Wait.” He turns to look at Stiles, brow furrowed.  “ _Foofie Poops_?”

 

Stiles shrugs. “It was that or another nickname for your dick.”

 

“Why?”  Derek whines, burying his face in his hands. “Why do I do this to myself?”

 

“You’re really going to ignore that I just made a comment about your dick?” Stiles shrugs, makes a right turn onto his street.  “And you love me, that’s why.”

 

Derek freezes. There’s that thing he’d been refusing to think about.  Stiles freezes.

 

“I just made this more awkward, didn’t I?”

 

“Yeah,” Derek swallows, finally removing his hands from his face and settling them on his lap. “Sure did.”

 

“Sorry,” Stiles pulls into the driveway and kills the engine.  “Still up for the Pixar part of our marathon?”  Derek groans, tossing his head back against the seat.  “Dude, don’t try to play like they haven’t grown on you, I don’t buy it.  Play the Disney purist all you want, but I’ve got you figured out.”

 

“Can we at least watch _Finding Nemo_ first?”

 

Stiles grins, undoing his seatbelt and hopping out of the Jeep.  “As long as I can touch the butt.”  Derek glares and Stiles raises his hands in defeat.  “Going, going.”

 

When Stiles turns his back and walks to the porch, Derek smiles to himself.

 

“You coming, pumpkin?”

 

“I will kill you.”

 

He’s sure Stiles would be more inclined to believe him if he weren’t laughing when he said it.

 

\--

 

The night continues, Derek makes fun of the Pixar movies he doesn’t like (Stiles knows Derek will never enjoy _Wall-E_ because he relates too much to stories where characters are on their own, stuck in silence, and he’s not even going to touch the parallels between the wolf and a _robot_ ). Stiles pretends that he’s actually mad over it, and somewhere between all the movies and constant trips to the kitchen for yet more food (and extra time for laughing so hard at each other they actually need to pause the movies), Stiles winds up mere seconds from a deep sleep against Derek’s chest halfway through _Up_.

 

Stiles can’t even figure out why they’re watching it; it’s Valentine’s Day, and even though they’re not celebrating as a couple, Stiles thinks there should still be something light about the evening, but he’s too relaxed, having molded himself to the left side of Derek’s body, to think about it.  Stiles knows _Up_ still makes Derek sad, though he supposes “long” would be the better term, no matter how many times he watches it.  He knows Derek’s no Disney purist – it’s just that the Pixar movies tend to hit much closer to home. He’s pretty sure Derek knows he knows.

 

But Stiles isn’t going to say anything, because the world keeps changing around them, the supernatural threats won’t stay away forever, and he doesn’t know how many more of these moments he’s going to get before he leaves for college.  So he throws logic to the wind, just for one more night, and burrows down into the warmth of Derek’s chest.

 

“Derek?” Stiles hums.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Thanks for being my Valentine, honey bun.”

 

Derek snorts, Stiles’ head shifting with the motion.  “Any time, loser,” he whispers affectionately.

 

Stiles, opting to let Derek have the last word just this one time, curls up and passes out.

 

Derek watches _Up_ until he eventually follows suit, arm resting over Stiles’ shoulders, lulled to sleep by the steady thrumming of Stiles’ heart.

 

He can’t help but hope that maybe next year things will be different.

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE! Looks like I'm finishing this series after all. I know it's languished for like three years but I have almost 7k combined for the last true installment and then the epilogue to tie it up. The series will end with 8, not 10, parts. I'm cracking away at it now, and I have my beta lined up, so hopefully it'll be here soon!
> 
> The next "work" in this series is just a bunch of updates over the last year over where this stands. That'll disappear soon, since I'm thinking I'll have fic to replace it.


End file.
